The third episode of The Knick’s second season, “The Best with the Best to Get the Best,” immediately snubs out whatever mystery was engendered by the finish of its predecessor, “You’re No Rose,” showing Dr. Thackery (Clive Owen) up late at night in one of the hospital’s offices, cooking up a sniffable hybrid of heroin and cocaine. He’s fallen back off the wagon, and hard.

The episode’s first dialogue scene finds Dr. Bertie Chickering (Michael Angarano) establishing himself at Mount Sinai Hospital, under the tutelage of sharp-elbowed surgeon Levi Zinberg (Michael Nathanson), the indirect recipient of Thackery’s drug-fuelled bigotry toward the end of the first season. (Just as an episode late in the last season hinged on Thackery’s bleary-eyed assessment of Zinberg, the camera remains at a distant remove from the Jewish doctor, playing up his much-commented-upon intensity while betraying as little about his inner workings as possible.) Chickering is entering into a situation drastically different from the Knickerbocker (or so Zinberg would want us to believe, anyway); there are three scheduled staff meetings per day, and he’ll have to earn the trust of his colleagues before being setting foot in the surgical theater. Chickering also meets a comely journalist named Genevieve Everidge (Arielle Goldman), embedded at Sinai to work on a story about Zinberg for Collier’s. She toys with him, faking indignation at his assumption she’s his secretary, only to ask him out on a date.

Back at the Knick, Cornelia (Juliet Rylance) continues her search to figure out who killed Health Department Inspector Francis Speight; the episode’s one conversation on the matter is between her and her old paramour, Dr. Edwards (Andre Holland), leading one to wonder if the man’s murder was merely a device for these two to resume sleeping together. Lucy Elkins (Eve Hewson) is seen attending to sick patients, being hit on (without much success) by Henry Robinson (Charles Aitken). In a hint of things to come, she asks him: “Are you a praying man? Do you read the Bible every day?” Elsewhere, a young woman dies of a drug overdose, and we next see Thackery bargaining with the bereaved parents by calling the mother out for showing signs of a cocaine addiction—in effect chastising the father both for being a hypocrite and a bad liar. “You won’t cut her face?” the mother asks, to which Thackery replies: “I’ll protect it with my life.”

Jack Amiel and Michael Begler’s dialogue is perhaps best suited for the stuffy turn-of-the-century milieu’s public gatherings and social comminglings, which require director Steven Soderbergh’s camera to stand as much on ceremony as do the show’s characters. Soderbergh’s pictorial project sometimes appears to be seeing how wide he can get the frame without a boom mic elbowing into the shot: Chickering’s introduction to the Sinai staff is one example, and a pretrial hearing convened by the lawyer representing Sister Harriet (Cara Seymour) in a municipal court is another. Bathed in pools of natural blue light, the judge announces his intent to prosecute not just Harriet under the full letter of the law, but Irish immigrants at large: “I will use this courtroom, and the strength of my God, to sound a warning against the people now flooding our shores, and let real Americans know exactly what you are.” It’s a shellacking, and all Cleary (Chris Sullivan) can ask Cornelia is, “What the fuck just happened?”

From one indignity to the next: Eleanor (Maya Kazan) comes home from the insane asylum with a mouth full of new teeth, but her husband, Dr. Everett Gallinger (Eric Johnson), after a brutal confab with her sister, Dorothy (Annabelle Attanasio), opts to visit a gilded alumni dinner alone. There, he happens upon one of his former classmates bloviating about the scientific importance of eugenics. “It’s the future,” he bellows, “and it’s happening just in the nick of time.” His spit-flecked diatribe is where “The Best with the Best to Get the Best” receives its title, a phrase which manages to be one of the least cumbersome things about the scene at large.

Building off of his appearance in New York in the previous episode, Lucy’s father, A.D. (Stephen Spinella), is seen this time soliciting confessions from his evangelical flock. Lucy herself is moved to open up for forgiveness, and A.D. beseeches her to “Open up that medical kit, Lucy! Take out that medicament and cast the devil out!” It’s presumed that she then confesses her first-season exploits with Thackery (and cocaine) to the congregation, but before that can happen, the scene cuts elsewhere. This decision gives the passage a certain sweep, an emotional granularity, only to feel disingenuous later when A.D., back at his lodging, wheezily berates and viciously pummels her. It’s implied that his uncontrolled “religious” rages are part and parcel of Lucy’s childhood.

Meanwhile, Chickering and Genevieve attend an indoor carnival, complete with barkers, token Native Americans, and violin-playing Siamese twins. Between mad cackles about her last piece of reportage, wherein she stayed at the same halfway house as Thackery, disguised as a madwoman, Genevieve appears capricious, even manic—which would make her a perfect foil for the buttoned-down Chickering. “When you read Genevieve Everidge, she’s anything you want her to be,” she says. “I doubt people would feel the same way about Esfir Coen, a shirtmaker’s daughter from Pittsfield.” (Chickering insists he would.) It’s interesting to see the series dip explicitly into the subject matter of anti-Semitism and the fear thereof. That said, Genevieve joins The Knick’s long roster of characters who may prove, for all their genius, way too indiscreet in conversation for their own good.

The same could be said for Cornelia: After having sex with her husband, Philip (Tom Lipinski), which we’re led to believe doesn’t happen that often, she offhandedly tells him about her visit to the courthouse that day, which freezes him cold and prompts him to ask her if she knew Harriet was executing abortions. The camerawork and lighting are beyond imitate, but his scolding—and her pained, overcompensatory smiling in response—ground the scene in underwhelming, overwritten drawing-room drama.

We next see Thackery soliciting Cate (Alexandra Roxo) for a back-alley sniffing session, followed by fervid, animalistic, drug-fuelled sex. In a daze, the surgeon wanders to the home of his ex-girlfriend, Abigail Alford (Jennifer Ferrin), bearing up under the circumstances (he reconstituted her nose from her arm in the first season) while slowly dying of syphilis. Like a flashback from the first season, we see Gallinger get bitterly jealous at Thackery’s choosing of Edwards as a medical collaborator, only for Thack to respond, unimpeachably: “If you want to collaborate with me, jealousy won’t serve you a tenth as well as ambition and effort.” Edwards and Thackery set about a cure for syphilis: The two men agree that it can be killed by inducing extremely high temperatures, but how? Thackery tells Edwards a story about a syphilis culture dying under hot lamps while he was working, but he may or may not be remembering the heroin-cocaine mixture we saw him cooking up in the episode’s prologue. They agree to try inducing malaria to a pig, so as to generate organic fever.

Herman Barrow (Jeremy Bobb), heretofore unseen in this episode, continues his uneven-keeled supervision of the new Knick’s construction. After lecturing one of his contractors that “I have always said a little bit of fear can be a very good thing,” he promptly runs into Jimmy (Happy Anderson), one of the loan sharks left over from Barrow’s deceased bookie, Bunkie Collier—now working, irony of ironies, for Tammany Hall. Cleary is seen next sweet-talking drugs from one of the nurses, which proves to be a terrible idea when his protégé wrestler dies of an overdose after his first injection. Barrow, meanwhile, reunites with his sex worker of choice, Junia (Rachel Korine), who manages to convince him that she’s actually in love with him and wants to escape the brothel. Soderbergh shows us a plan firming up in Barrow’s mind, but it’s as out of leftfield and naïve as any character decision this season.

A clear effort is being made by Amiel, Begler, and Soderbergh to make the new season as dense as possible, and it’s hard to tell if The Knick is novelistic, soap-operatic, or a mess of preachy subplots. It’s also hard to tell if you’re witnessing bad acting or trenchant commentary on the characters’ sundry delusions; in the instance of a Gallinger or a Junia, the answer may be both.

Things are ratcheted up further still in this episode’s finale, wherein Edwards is summoned to the manor where his parents live as domestic help—only to find that his British wife, Opal (Zaraah Abrahams), has turned up in New York, looking for him. His parents humoring her while aghast at him, the scene carries both menace and formality, concluding the episode in a blatant bit of audience-baiting with a shriek of anxiety from Edwards’ mother: “I know exactly what that girl wants. That girl is determined!” The end credits roll before more details can be revealed. Until this moment, the show’s only protagonists without lurid double lives have been Chickering and Edwards; the count is now down to one, promising things will, as ever, get more lurid and intriguing in equal proportion.

WATCH: Stylish Queer Short Film Stay Makes Its Online Premiere

Writer-director Brandon Zuck’s sexy and stylish gay thriller Stay made its premiere on the film festival circuit back in 2013, but the L.A.-based filmmaker is finally debuting it for free online. The short film, which Zuck claims is loosely based on events from his past, follows Ash (Brandon Harris) and his ex-boyfriend, Jacks (Julian Brand), on a road trip to the Florida Keys where the pair get mixed up in a fatal drug deal.

“I think maybe I was holding onto the film because it’s such a part of me,” Zuck says about his decision to release Stay on YouTube, which has been criticized by queer creators and organizations like GLAAD for ever-changing content guidelines that appear to target content made by and for LGBT people.

“YouTube started age-restricting my other LGBT films and—to be totally honest—I got furious. YouTube is this faceless behemoth and there’s nothing someone like me can do to fight any of it directly. Really the only thing I could think of was just putting more queer content out there. And Stay was sitting right there on my desktop where it’s always been. So I just hit upload. And it got age-restricted. C’est la vie. Next.”

2019 Oscar Nomination Predictions

How has Oscar royally screwed things up this year? Let us count the ways. The hastily introduced and unceremoniously tabled (for now) “best popular film” Oscar. The impending commercial-break ghettoization of such categories as best cinematography and best film editing, but most certainly not best song and best animated feature. The abortive attempts to unveil Kevin Hart as the host not once, but twice, stymied by the online backlash over years-old anti-gay Twitter jokes and leading AMPAS to opt for George Glass as this year’s master of ceremonies. The strong-arming of its own membership to deter rank-and-file superstars from attending competing precursor award shows. If these end up being the last Oscars ever, and it’s starting to feel as though it should be, what a way to go out, right? Like the floating island of plastic in the Pacific, the cultural and political detritus of Oscar season has spread far beyond any previous rational estimates and will almost certainly outlive our functional presence on this planet. And really, when you think about it, what’s worse: The extinction of mankind or Bohemian Rhapsody winning the best picture Oscar? In that spirit, we press on.

Picture

There will be plenty of time, too much time, to go deep on the many ways Green Book reveals the flawed soul of your average, aged white liberal in America circa 2019. For now, let’s just admit that it’s as sure a nominee as The Favourite, Roma, and A Star Is Born. (There’s snackable irony in the fact that a movie called The Front Runner became very much not an Oscar front runner in a year that doesn’t appear to have a solid front runner.) And even though few seem to be predicting it for an actual win here, Spike Lee’s BlacKkKlansman has an almost spotless precursor track record, showing up almost across the board among the guilds. Predicting this category would’ve been easy enough when Oscar limited it to five films, but it’s strangely almost as easy this year to see where the line will cut off between five and 10. Adam McKay’s Vice may be without shame, but you don’t have to strain hard to see how people could mistake it for the film of the moment. Bohemian Rhapsody is certainly lacking in merit, but, much like our comrade in chief, Oscar has never been more desperate for people to like and respect him, and a hit is a hit. Except when it’s a Marvel movie, which is why Black Panther stands precariously on the category’s line of cutoff, despite the rabid enthusiasm from certain corners that will likely be enough to push it through.

Best Director

Everyone can agree that Bohemian Rhapsody will be one of the best picture contenders that doesn’t get a corresponding best director nomination, but virtually all the other nominees we’re predicting have a shot. Including Peter-flashing Farrelly, whose predictably unsubtle work on Green Book (or, Don and Dumber) netted him a widely derided DGA nomination. The outrage over Farrelly’s presence there took some of the heat off Vice’s Adam McKay, but if any DGA contender is going to swap out in favor of Yorgos Lanthimos (for BAFTA favorite The Favourite), it seems likely to be McKay. As Mark Harris has pointed out, Green Book is cruising through this awards season in a lane of its own, a persistently well-liked, well-meaning, unchallenging throwback whose defiant fans are clearly in a fighting mood.

Best Actress

Had Fox Searchlight reversed their category-fraud strategizing and flipped The Favourite’s Olivia Coleman into supporting and Rachel Weisz and Emma Stone into lead, the five best actress slots would arguably have been locked down weeks, if not months, ago, unless Fox’s bet-hedging intuits some form of industry resistance to double female-led propositions. As it stands, there are four locks that hardly need mention and a slew of candidates on basically equal footing. Hereditary’s Toni Collette has become shrieking awards show junkies’ cause célèbre this year, though she actually has the critic awards haul to back them up, having won more of the regional prizes than anyone else. The same demographic backing Collette gave up hope long ago on Viola Davis being able to survive the Widows collapse, and yet there by the grace of BAFTA does she live on to fight another round. Elsie Fisher’s palpable awkwardness in Eighth Grade and winning awkwardness navigating the Hollywood circuit have earned her an almost protective backing. But we’re going out on a limb and calling it for the rapturously received Roma’s Yalitza Aparicio. Voters could, like us, find it not a particularly great performance and still parlay their good will for her into a nomination that’s there for the taking.

Actor

Take Toni Collette’s trophies thus far in the competition and double them. And then add a few more. That’s the magnitude of endorsements backing First Reformed’s Ethan Hawke. And his trajectory has the clear markings of an almost overqualified performance that, like Naomi Watts’s in Mulholland Drive, cinephiles decades from now will wonder how Oscar snubbed. If Pastor Ernst Toller and Sasha Stone are right and God is indeed watching us all and cares what the Academy Awards do, Hawke’s nomination will come at the expense of John David Washington, whose strength in the precursors thus far (SAG and Globe-nominated) is maybe the most notable bellwether of BlacKkKlansman’s overall strength. Because, as with the best actress category, the other four slots are basically preordained. Unlike with best actress, the bench of also-rans appears to be one solitary soul. A fitting place for Paul Schrader’s man against the world.

Supporting Actress

Every Oscar prognosticator worth their bragging rights has spent the last couple weeks conspicuously rubbing their hands together about Regina King’s chances. The all-or-nothing volley that’s seen her sweep the critics’ awards and win the Golden Globe, and at the same time not even get nominations from within the industry—she was left off the ballot by both SAG and the BAFTAs—are narrative disruptions among a class that lives for narratives and dies of incorrect predictions. But despite the kvetching, King is as safe as anyone for a nomination in this category. It doesn’t hurt that, outside the pair of lead actresses from The Favourite, almost everyone else in the running this year feels like a 7th- or 8th-place also-ran. Except maybe Widows’s Elizabeth Debicki, whose fervent fans probably number just enough to land her…in 7th or 8th place. Vice’s Amy Adams is set to reach the Glenn Close club with her sixth Oscar nomination, and if she’d only managed to sustain the same loopy energy she brings to Lynne Cheney’s campaign-trail promise to keep her bra on, she’d deserve it. Which leaves a slot for supportive housewives Claire Foy, Nicole Kidman, and Emily Blunt. Even before the collapse of Mary Poppins Returns, we preferred Blunt’s chances in A Quiet Place.

Supporting Actor

The same people who’re curiously doubting Regina King’s nomination chances seem awfully assured that Sam Elliott’s moist-eyed, clearly canonical backing-the-truck-up scene in A Star Is Born assures him not only a nomination but probably the win. Elliott missed nominations with both the Golden Globes and BAFTA, and it was hard not to notice just how enthusiasm for A Star Is Born seemed to be cooling during the same period Oscar ballots were in circulation. Right around the same time, it started becoming apparent that BlacKkKlansman is a stronger draw than anyone thought, which means Adam Driver (who everyone was already predicting for a nod) won’t have to suffer the representationally awkward fate of being the film’s only nominee. Otherwise, the category appears to favor previously awarded actors (Mahershala Ali and Sam Rockwell) or should have been previously awarded actors (Chalamet). Leaving Michael B. Jordan to remain a should have been previously nominated actor.

Original Screenplay

It’s not unusual for some of the year’s most acclaimed movies whose strength isn’t necessarily in their scripts to get nominated only in the screenwriting categories. First Reformed, which even some of its fiercest defenders admit can sometimes feel a bit like Paul Schrader’s “It’s Still Rock and Roll to Me” greatest-hits package, stands to be another of them. But it’ll be a close call, given the number of other equally vanguard options they’ll be weighing it against, like Sorry to Bother You, which arguably feels more urgently in the moment in form, Eighth Grade, which is more empathetically post-#MeToo, and even Cold War, which had a surprisingly strong showing with BAFTA. Given the quartet of assured best picture contenders in the mix, First Reformed is going to have to hold off all of them.

Reflections in a Quilt: John McPhee’s The Patch

“But beyond the flaring headlines of the past year, few are aware of who Richard Burton really is, what he has done, and what he is throwing away by gulping down his past and then smashing the glass.” This is one of those quotes, which, through its sheer heft and style, threatens to turn any accompanying review into a redundancy. To find other lines that meet its towering standard, seek its source: The Patch by John McPhee. There’s no shortage of arresting remarks in this nicely heterogeneous collection of writing. One sinks into the book, riveted, but also races across it as its fascinations multiply.

The first section is called “The Sporting Scene.” Those typically uninterested in sports or sports writing, like myself, shouldn’t be deterred by the title. As I discovered through other recent encounters with McPhee’s ballyhooed writing, the author has a knack for inexorably moving readers beyond their biases. Two-part New Yorker articles like “Oranges,” “The Pine Barrens,” and “Basin and Range,” which were later turned into books, are studious and propulsive. Fine-grained matters of geology or citrus aren’t exactly simplified in these articles, but wading through the density becomes an irresistible prospect thanks to the author’s intelligibility, wit, enthusiasm, and atmospheric touches. For an example of the latter, consider McPhee’s focus on the “unnatural and all but unending silence” of the Floridian orange groves that he visited. What’s more, he often conveys a certain sense of respectful understanding, as when he mentions that he has “yet to meet anyone living in the Pine Barrens who has in any way indicated envy of people who live elsewhere.”

Similar virtues spruce up the “The Sporting Scene.” Its pieces include emphases on fishing, football, golf, and lacrosse. McPhee honors the athletic endeavor by carefully illuminating its particulars. He busily supplies facts, anecdotes, ideas, and biographical details. In “The Orange Trapper,” for instance, he discusses his hunt for errant golf balls. It’s an engaging topic. He has learned, among other things, what occurs when you take a saw to a golf ball. You find the world: “Core, mantle, crust—they are models of the very planet they are filling up at a rate worldwide approaching a billion a year.” Other jolts arrive through the often remarkable conclusions to his paragraphs and pieces. The ending of “The Orange Trapper” is an especial wonder—a thrilling mobilization of words that elicits laughter and awe.

There are also bears: “Direct Eye Contact” is a compact assortment of hopes and advisements concerning bears in New Jersey, and it concludes on a sweetly uxorious note. Indeed, one never knows where any of these pieces are going. In “Pioneer,” meanwhile, McPhee ponders Bill Tierney’s choice to begin coaching the University of Denver men’s lacrosse team. “How could he leave Princeton?” McPhee asks. “It can be done. And Tierney knew what he was doing.” Those lines showcase the occasionally pithy, pleasantly chiseled style of his prose. It’s a considered design that favors clarity, structures hairpin turns toward new discursive trails, and pairs well with punchlines. In “Phi Beta Football,” one of McPhee’s colleagues promises to deliver him “a nice piece of change” if he figures out a suitable title for his book. “I went away thinking,” McPhee tells us, and then adds, “mostly about the piece of change.”

The recounting of sporting events is likewise augmented by the author’s playfulness. “Pioneer” throws us this line: “But Syracuse exploded—one, two, three—and the game went into ‘sudden victory’ overtime, the politically uplifting form of sudden death.” So transporting and genial is McPhee’s writing that the specifics of any given match never weigh down the reading, nor do his more elaborate remarks. “It’s a Brueghelian scene against the North Sea,” he declares in “Linksland and Bottle,” his piece on the 2010 British Open, “with golfers everywhere across the canvas—putting here, driving there, chipping and blasting in syncopation.” What’s even better is his sensitivity, in the same paragraph, to the fine distinctions between the manner of Scottish and Californian galleries as they observe rounds of golf. Suddenly, his words become almost numinous, and no grace is lost.

The second section of The Patch is called “An Album Quilt” and it encompasses a dizzying mixture of short pieces. None are available in any of McPhee’s other books. In an introductory statement, the author compares these pieces to the dissimilar blocks of a quilt. He notes that he “didn’t aim to reprint the whole of anything”; he sought out “blocks to add to the quilt, and not without new touches, internal deletions, or changed tenses.” This section is quite distinct from “The Sporting Scene,” but no less extraordinary in its overall effect. A piece about Cary Grant starts things off. Boyhood encounters with Albert Einstein are up ahead.

There are more standouts than can be briefly mentioned here, including an evocative overview of the craftsmanship that McPhee discovered within the original Hershey’s Chocolate Factory. The author’s clipped expressions of wonder enliven that piece: “Gulfs of chocolate. Chocolate deeps. Mares’ tails on the deeps.” A little later, he mentions “granite millstones arranged in cascading tiers, from which flow falls of dark cordovan liquor.” One can imagine Don Draper reading through this with poignant interest. In another entry, a series of succinct blurbs about tennis luminaries, Rod Laver’s childhood is crisply set against his eventual stardom: “Had to wait his turn while his older brothers played. His turn would come.”

And so one just leaps from piece to piece, and, along the way, discovers scenes from different periods in McPhee’s life and career. An encounter with two New York City policemen—this likely occurred in the ‘60s or early ‘70s, given the “familiar green and black” on the cop car—is particularly memorable. It begins with the author’s recollection of locking his keys inside his car, which, he notes, had been parked “in a moted half-light that swiftly lost what little magic it had had, and turned to condensed gloom.” After that characteristically precise fusion of atmosphere and psychology, he describes scrounging around for wire so as to open the door. The sudden arrival of the policemen created a dilemma: Would they view McPhee, who had been wedging a coat hanger into the car, as a thief or the hapless owner? “The policemen got out of the patrol car,” McPhee tells us, “and one of them asked for the wire.” From there, the situation undulates a couple more times before concluding through a sparkling punchline that’s supplied by one of the officers. The story is over before you know it, but its brisk and detail-oriented pleasures are echoed throughout much of the book.

In the title piece, meanwhile, McPhee movingly writes about his father, but also about fishing a pickerel out of a patch of lily pads. Here and elsewhere, granular descriptions become byways into a range of enthusiasms, histories, and hearts. The author, of course, frequently registers himself through the infinitesimal details, and through the humor that he yokes to affection. “‘Fuck you, coach!’ Quote unquote” is a message that McPhee once emailed to Bill Tierney. Great warmth radiates below the mantle of those words.

This, among sundry other qualities, keeps one reading. There’s also something uncommonly relaxing about many of his patient elaborations of things known and unknown. And there is, both within the book’s individual pieces and across its varied totality, a sense of constant renewal and revelation. As McPhee notes down somewhere amid the blocks of his quilt, “I could suddenly see it, almost get into it—into another dimension of experience that I might otherwise have missed entirely.”

John McPhee’s The Patch is now available from Farrar, Straus and Giroux.

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